


go forward slowly

by royalwisteria



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hawke is Bad at Feelings, Hightown Funk Exchange, Pining, discovering what makes a home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 15:26:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16997592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalwisteria/pseuds/royalwisteria
Summary: Hawke’s watching him, which is how she knows his mouth echoesour. For a moment, she feels a misstep in the air. He shakes his head, and they continue walking. Hawke jams her hands into her pockets, awkward and uncomfortable; she clenches and unclenches them, therapeutic, like taking deep breaths.





	go forward slowly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solshine/gifts).



> prompt is: I'm really not very particular, but I love a good inwardly pining outwardly jovial Varric. And there are just never enough fake relationship fics in the world, as a matter of course. I also like Hot Mess Hawke who probably needs more therapy then she lets on.
> 
> My true weakness though is anything that deals with how important Kirkwall is to both of them, especially to Hawke as an immigrant who cares deeply about her new home. They make fun of it, but it's theirs and they want the best for it.
> 
> (also: I forgot Isabela disappears after Act 2 until Too Late so please forgive that inconsistency!! hope the fic is otherwise enjoyable)

To say she loves Kirkwall is a lie, Hawke thinks. She knows that to say she loves _anything_ is a stretch.

It doesn’t make this any easier.

Her dad used to tell this story: Hawke is eight, the twins toddlers— or babies? Hawke’s not sure the difference matters, but she does so appreciate those little details— and the story is about her childhood doll. She was not used to being a big sister yet, despite the twins inching closer to three, and shared her own baby things with great reluctance. They were hers, after all, the wool blanket her mother sewed with her first accidental magic, the dress she grew out of years ago but wore nearly every day. She loved those things, no matter how long ago she’d grown out of them. They were _hers_ , she wanted them to stay that way, she had so few things of her own.

Malcolm added a great deal of embellishments, an oral storyteller to rival Varric, but the story boils down to this: “in a fit of jealousy,” Malcolm would say, but Hawke remembers cold fear, “Marian burns the doll to ashes, and has since learned to curb her temper.” Hawke hates the story, but her dad loved it. Every move, every neighbor would hear the doll-story without the magic. Within their home, as Bethany held tight to the hand-me-down blanket, and Carver attacked his older sister with her old toy sword too heavy for him, he would tell the unedited story. “And then she stitched you a brand new doll,” Malcolm would finish, kissing the twins foreheads.

Hawke was never sure why her dad liked the story so much. It was the first time she’d summoned fire; most of the time, magic had manifested in little things, but always when she was angry. Dishes rattled with her raised voice and doors slammed in her wake. The fire was the first manifestation of her anger, of jealousy, and Marian will never forget the wide-eyes of her little sister and how she shrieked when the doll burned in her hands. She understands, a little, of Carver’s distrust. He was there, after all, snatching the doll out of Bethany’s hands and stomping on it until the fire was out. Even as a child, he had been precocious and watchful. The story is cautionary more than anything. Malcolm’s telling and telling and telling of the story was a constant reminder, and she would sit at the tables, staring at her hands, the hands that had left burn marks on her sister’s own hands.

Bethany’s first manifestation was nothing like Hawke’s.

She never made a new doll for her sister; Leandra did, and Hawke presented it to Bethany with a stammered apology. That doll burned, again, but in Lothering, after a tour through most of Ferelden. Poor thing never knew what a home was. With both parents gone, and only one sibling surviving, Hawke feels like she should cling to her fading memories. Enough years have passed she has trouble recalling the details of Malcolm’s face. If she saw Carver more often, maybe she’d remember better, but she doesn’t.

The templar outfit doesn’t suit him.

She loves her family, despite the deceased status of most of them. It’s easy to say she loves her friends, but Hawke’s not interested in admitting emotional intimacy, much less confess it. Sometimes, when Isabela’s fingers clasp around her wrist a moment too long, when worry creases Merrill’s forehead, and when Fenris gruffly offers a prized Tevinter bottle, Hawke thinks, maybe, maybe she should say something, but her heart clenches, and she thinks about Kirkwall and how the whole city is stained with loss, and she knows better. The moment she admits— the moment she _commits—_ the likelier she is to lose.

  
  
  
  


“I’ll pay you.”

It’s a last resort, and it’s a poor one. Money is decidedly something Varric does not lack, but Hawke’s getting desperate, and it just pops out.

Varric snorts, an involuntary one, so at least she wins _something_. “With what,” he asks, but it’s a flat sort of question, the kind of question where he doesn’t really want or care about the answer, but responding as though an obligation. An obligation to their friendship, maybe, though Hawke thinks that friends shouldn’t be obliged to answer simple questions.

“Money?”

He shakes his head and hair falls from his short, hastily constructed, ponytail. He tucks some away, and Hawke notices that his knuckles are stained with ink.

“Inspiration,” she says, struck by the same. “I offer my body and this function as inspiration!”

Varric puts down his quill, and it’s always a major win when anything Hawke says gets that sort of reaction, but she soon realizes it’s just to pull the leather strap holding his hair back loose. “You’ve provided plenty of that already.”

“Wait.” Hawke props herself up on one elbow. “What?”

“You did that,” he waves a hand, “thing with the Arishok. I was inspired.”

She narrows her eyes. He’s lying about something, she just doesn’t know what about. “That thing,” she says, haughtily, letting the tension go and falling back onto his bed, “is a highly specialized _technique_ , Varric. It took me ages to perfect.”

“I’ll be sure to write it that way, if just to soothe your ego.”

She stares at his ceiling— stained with smoke and, is that food? Did Varric have a food fight and not invite her?— and rolls over to look at him. He’s sitting at his desk, a map of the Free Marches tacked in front of him, with a map of Kirkwall someone did their best on next to it. He’s reading letters, from whom she doesn’t know, only that he recently got a letter that made him deeply unhappy. He gets those now and then and stays unhappy for a while.

Hawke decides to play her trump.

“It’ll be my first function without mother.”

Her final card gets Varric to look at her, at long last, and she smiles, hopefully lonesomely. He sighs, runs a hand down his face. “You’ll be the death of me, one day.”

“One day,” she agrees, then adds, “sounds like a yes, fantastic, perfect, I’ll send a nug with the details.” Before he can say anything else, or do something absurd, like ask after her well-being, she’s leaping out of his bed and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re the best dwarf I know,” she calls, as she runs out his rooms and down the stairs. A quick looks shows Isabela entertaining at a table of cards, and Hawke tips an imaginary hat and receives a tip back.

Then she’s out the Hanged Man and, she thinks, safe. Night hasn’t quite fallen, and, if she squints, she can see something approximating a sunset through the tightly constructed buildings of Lowtown. The cobblestones are slick, which means it rained sometime during the hours spent in Varric’s rooms, but not a lot, since she didn’t hear it, and there aren’t collected pools of water between the stones.

She looks back up. The light is fading fast, and Kirkwall is in that limbo called dusk. A few minutes more, and the sky will be dark, without pretty pinks or purples, and Hawke will struggle to see the stars through the lights from the buildings that surround her.

Hawke starts walking and kicks a few pebbles. Maybe she should stop by to see Gamlen. But, also, Gamlen’s an old grump that’s been especially grumpish since the foundry news. She doesn’t particularly care for his company on a good day, and he hasn’t had a good day in quite some time.

She starts making her way back to Hightown; the buildings become a little more spacious, and more greenery appears. There’s music spilling down an alleyway, and Hawke strains her ears and hears soft-shoe dancing. Her mother liked dancing, and Hawke looks up again. She can’t quite see any of the constellations Malcolm taught her, back in Ferelden, no matter how she squints, and has only gotten glimpses when they run late in the Wounded Coast or Sundermount. 

Her dad taught her how to find the cardinal directions using the stars, but that’s not really helpful in a city such as Kirkwall.

  
  
  
  


“And another win for me.” Isabela grins, teeth bright and sharp, and sends a wink Merrill’s way. Hawke leans back in her chair, head lolling a little, eyes fluttering closed with a gusty exhale.

“Isabela,” she drawls. “You cheating whore. I’m never playing cards with you again.”

“I think I’m out of coin, now. Oh dear.”

Hawke tilts her head and cracks one eyelid to see Merrill fretting while counting her coins. Isabela also watches, and Hawke loves the look of gentle consternation on her face. “I’ll make a loan,” Isabella announces and divides the past round’s winnings in two and pushes half towards Merrill.

“Oh, really?” Merrill brightens so easily, and Hawke leans forward again, elbows on the sticky Hanged Man table, chin on the back of her entwined fingers.

“Oh, Isabela, I think I’m out of coin too.” She flutters her eyelashes for good measure, and Isabela eyes her, the meager coin pile in front, and scoffs.

“You’ve got a good-sized pile sitting in Varric’s bank, so I think not.”

“If I haven’t a clue to access it, is it truly mine?”

Isabela shakes her head while shuffling the cards. “I’ve cracked all sorts of safes, but the workings of banks are far beyond me. Besides, why sneak into a stuffy vault, when I can sneak into a stuffy bedroom?” She winks at Merrill, lascivious as always, and is richly rewarded with Merrill’s bright laughter.

Varric appears, and Hawke quickly leaves the table and her lost money behind. “There you are! I was about to leave you behind.”

Varric sweeps a look at the table, the mugs of ale and money piles, and snorts. “Where to, Hawke?”

She springs from her chair, already forgetting about the money, hating how financially secure she is that leaving several silvers worth of money is something she doesn’t have to think about, and instead focuses on how Varric is most certainly her favorite dwarf. _Where to, Hawke_ — truly, a statement that is music to her ears. “Oh, I’m sure I can think of somewhere.”

“Don’t forget your coat,” Merrill calls after her, and Hawke belatedly tilts backwards to snag the old thing from the back of her chair.

“Lead onwards, my right hand,” she says, and Varric rolls his eyes as he leaves the Hanged Man. It’s more blustery outside than chilly, leaves green and red alike blowing about in the streets. They must’ve been blown in from outside city walls, Hawke thinks, because leaves certainly don’t grow that size within city limits.

“Did you need something?” Varric asks, emphasis on _did_ , and he’s a fool who’s always offering.

“An escape route,” Hawke admits, and tacks on, “did you get my nug?” She places emphasis on the same word. Sometimes that’s how their conversations go, phrases and words slung back and forth, inane, but she can’t imagine life without them.

“If you mean Sandal, I did see him. He’s looking in good health, lately.”

“Yes, yes, him and Bodahn are doing _excellent_ , I’ll be sure to pass on your concern.” They walk a few more paces, and, impatient, she nudges. “Well?”

“I told you I would, didn’t I? I don’t go back on promises, Hawke. I might be a liar, but I’m not an oath-breaker.”

“Hmm.” Varric confuses her. She thinks. She thinks he confuses her, because sometimes he’s got a look in his eye, a certain tilt to his head, that means _something_ , but it’s always gone in a flash. She used to see it, more, a year or so ago, and lately emotions are a lot of work, and she’s not particularly interested in examining them. “Good. I did send in our RSVP.”

Hawke’s watching him, which is how she knows his mouth echoes _our_. For a moment, she feels a misstep in the air. He shakes his head, and they continue walking. Hawke jams her hands into her pockets, awkward and uncomfortable; she clenches and unclenches them, therapeutic, like taking deep breaths.

  
  
  
  


“Miss, I hardly think that’s appropriate clothing.”

“Bodahn,” Hawke says, in a sing-song, pausing dramatically on the steps. “Are you saying leather armor and steel gorgets are atypical ballroom wear?”

“Yes, miss, that’s exactly what I’m saying!” From any of her friends, rolled eyes would accompany the statement, but Bodahn is simply indignant. “Everyone would judge you rather poorly if you go like that.”

She sighs. “I’m just heading to Lowtown for a bit. Fancy clothes would just get dirty. I’d rather not...” Dig through her mother’s closet again, Hawke doesn’t finish.

Bodahn squints in suspicion. “Lowtown? Will you have time to go there, back, and get ready for tonight? You only have a few hours.”

“Bodahn, that sounds like doubt! Have I ever given reason for you to judge my time management skills? Wait, no, don’t answer that.” She skips steps on the way down, lands heavily on one foot, and quickly crosses the room. “Varric’s meeting me here, so. Get him some whiskey, or something, if he gets here before me.”

“Yes, miss, I’ll take care of it.”

Then she’s gone, passing the square she borders in Hightown quickly, and she dips down an alleyway with a steep incline: a shortcut, one that will land her near Gamlen’s in half the time. Give or take, and entirely dependent on interruptions. She endures a few attempted muggings, but they tend to flee when they get a good look on her face. A good call— they were singular, and Hawke would only have difficulty if they were plural.

She knocks at Gamlen’s door when she arrives, before deciding to fuck that, and barges in. Nostalgia washes over her for a moment. She would always slam the door when coming home, and sometimes the neighbors would complain to Leandra and Gamlen, and when she came home, Leandra was there most of the time, sitting at the desk, pouring over ledgers for pay or their own expenses and she would always look up with a smile, or maybe that’s memory gilding her— Leandra always looked, sometimes with a smile that always transformed her face from tired to radiant, and Carver would grumble when she took too long to enter and shoulder past her to drop all his heavy equipment, and Gamlen would come home late, reeking of alcohol and cheap perfume— “Gamlen?” she calls out, and hears a groan from the back room.

Hawke walks over the dirty floors, past the dirty furniture, and pushes the partially open door to fully open. He’s lying on the ground, and there are new vomit stains on the floor. She clucks her tongue. “Gamlen,” she says, disapproving. Don’t leave me alone, she doesn’t say. Hawke gets a groan in return. “C’mon, sit up.” She tugs at his shoulder and wrestles with his body to get him up and back onto his bed. He sits up and stares at her.

“You look nothing like her, you know?” He doesn’t reek of alcohol today, but of elfroot. He squints at her, eyes bloodshot. “Nothing.”

“I’m well-aware.”

“But you’ve got her eyes, you do. The Amell blue.”

Hawke, crouching on the floor, clenches her fist. Unclenches, spreading her fingers out as far as they reach, and clenches once more, tight enough to feel her nails in her palm. One more unclench, and she exhales gustily. “I have something for you.” He peers at her, leaning forward enough he almost loses balance. “Maker, stay still. You’re impossible.”

Gamlen waves a hand, wrist limp, and his head falls back against the wall. “Well, what is it?”

“Letters.” She drops a bag onto the bed and a few spill out. Leandra’s writing covers them. “They’re not of any value, so you’re not getting more drugs from them.”

“Curse you,” Gamlen says, but there’s no heart behind it. “Curse you, and your brother, and your father.”

“Gamlen. It’s been eight months.”

“Like you’re doing any better.” He picks up one of the letters, and she watches him swallow.

“I’ll make my own way out.”

There’s an acrid taste in the air when she steps aside, iron in the air.

  
  
  
  


Varric is waiting in her study when she returns. He’s reading some book, the tome open on his lap, glasses low on his nose, and sipping whiskey from a tumbler. He looks up, and something in her heart eases, forgiving herself for Gamlen’s vitriol. “Are you going like that?”

She glances down. On the way back, she’d gotten in some scuffles, and someone’s broken nose had left blood droplets down her leg. A rough fall had her entire backside covered in dirt and grime, and it had also gotten into her hair. She grins, and does a little spin for him. “What, don’t think I look good enough for Viscount Keep?”

He grins back at her. This is easy, she thinks, and relaxes, the tension between her shoulders since picking up the letters easing. “You look fabulous.”

“I’ll go get ready.” She still stands there, looking at her best friend. The fire’s lit, to chase the chill of late autumn and provide light the waning daylight cannot.

Varric arches one eyebrow, but then returns to his book, chin tilting up to get a better angle with his glasses. The firelight catches the lighter blonde tints in his hair and the wire of his frames. He only wears the glasses when indoors, out of some misplaced vanity, and Hawke likes them, reminds her of this boy she liked in the fields of Ferelden, who was kind and didn’t mind the twins trailing after them. When they leave, Varric will probably tuck them into an obscure pocket Hawke can never find. He sits there, at home, and he’s dear. He is familiar, like he belongs.

This is too easy.

Jerky, she leaves, a hand lingering on the doorframe, and takes the stairs four at a time, leaping into the air.

  
  
  
  


In her silk pants and ruffled blouse, Hawke feels ridiculous. Varric assures her this isn’t the case, but his eyes are twinkling, and they tend to do so when he lies. “You’re a liar,” she tells him.

“It’s better than the dress.” 

It’s a paltry offering, but correct; the dress was horrendous.

“This blouse makes my shoulders look huge,” Hawke mutters, tugging at the corners of the shoulders.

“Your shoulders _are_ huge, Hawke.”

“You know, Varric,” Hawke says, hand moving to tightly grab his shoulders, tone light, “sometimes you tell the truth at the most inconvenient times.”

He laughs. “Never took you for a vain fool.”

What does that even _mean_? She doesn’t ask, but those words haunt her— vain fool. That’s what folk called her mother, and sometimes Bethany. Leandra worked hard, tanning dark in the summer and thick calluses forming on her hands, but she took meticulous care of her hair and teeth and skin. She always seemed to have a glow of refinement about her, even when they were in the depths of Ferelden. Hawke used to be proud of having a beautiful mother.

“Is that so bad,” she says, and she means to sound unaffected, maybe a little light or a little mocking, but it comes out flat.

“Aw, Hawke, don’t be like that. I’m nothing but a fool. There’s nothing worse than just a fool.” He bumps into her as they walk the Hightown streets, and the gesture tugs at the corner of her mouth. 

The night is quiet, the air crisp. Hawke wishes this moment could stretch forever, Varric and Hawke together, walking the streets of their city, the night full of promise. The moon is already in the sky, nearing a full, and the nice cobblestones of Hightown glimmer, just the slightest bit. Her heart sighs. Is this what home is like? Hawke doesn’t know what it is to have a home, and she’s torn between thinking Varric as the cause, or Kirkwall.

The thought of Kirkwall as home is chilling. This city takes, and this city is not kind.

  
  
  
  


It’s a banquet with some dancing rather than a ball, but the two are close enough for Hawke to use the words interchangeably. There’s no living Viscount to welcome them to the Keep, but there are footmen who announce their presence to the room at large. There are banners and streamers hanging to celebrate, and Hawke can tell Varric is struggling to contain his laughter.

“Some of their vaults put yours to shame, Hawke, and all they are willing to pay for their retained independence is some plain paper streamers. The shame.”

“Varric,” Hawke chides, and for once isn’t in agreement. When they first returned to the Amell estate, Leandra had forced her to attend some social engagements, dangling the guilt of Carver and Bethany in front of her like a poisoned carrot. Those engagements had been dull affairs, only for the lack of Varric or any of her friends. Before those events, Hawke had never attended nice dinners, never been to nice homes, never had someone put a plate of hot soup in front of her, and never had to debate which spoon she was meant to use.

Tonight is a celebration, and that feeling of contentment returns. This is her city, no matter what she might think at times. They’re all standing here because she was a lucky idiot: an idiot to duel the Arishok, and lucky to win. She might bluster and say it was all skill and-or technique, but her chances had relied on the quickness of her feet. If he’d grabbed hold of her any earlier than he had, they’d all be living with the Qun.

So, no. The people populating the room might be filthy rich and cheap simultaneously, but Hawke doesn’t give a shit. She’s here to celebrate the six month anniversary of the duel, and she’s gonna have a good night no matter what.

“Wine?” she asks him and lifts two flutes from a passing waiter before hearing an answer. She passes one to him and sniffs her own glass. It’s red and rich. She takes a first, small sip, then glances at Varric. He’s staring at his wine glass, a little line in his forehead. “What, you don’t like wine?”

“Not my preferred drink, no.”

“Hmm,” Hawke says, quickly downs her glass— and it’s a waste, really, but this will be worth it— and snatches his glass back. “I’ll take it back then.” Varric laughs, likely at the incongruence, and Hawke feels a smile stretch across her face.

People start approaching them, and Hawke leaves her empty glass on a table when someone reaches her.

“Marian, it’s lovely to see you again. I haven’t seen you in months! How have you been doing since…?”

Hawke knows the words that belong in that pause, ‘ _since your mother died_ ’, and he’s a coward for not saying them. “The usual self-flagellation, mostly.” She sips her wine; she can feel the first glass warming her stomach, the slight heartburn that accompanies red wine on an empty stomach.

He winces. Hawke’s trying to place how and if they’ve actually met before, or if he just knew her mother, when his eyes flit to Varric. _Ah_ , she thinks, a suitor from the times Leandra tried setting her up. “But,” she says, with a dramatic pause and a really, very unnecessary hand laid gently across Varric’s shoulders. They’re broader than she realized. “Without my dear Varric, I truly would have been lost.”

Varric looks at her, just one of those looks he always gives her, of exasperation and affection, but there’s also a twist of lips she doesn’t like, something akin to resignation. The other man makes an exaggerated acknowledging sound that makes him sound an idiot. “I see, I see. Your best friend?”

Her eyes flit to this man’s face, and there’s something like disbelief on his face, that she would be with a dwarf, that enrages her. So, sugar sweet, she tilts her body closer to Varric, resting part of her weight on him, and says, “Not just that, but the love of my life.”

A sour look passes over the gentleman’s face, and he nods stiffly, offers, “my belated congratulations, I hadn’t known Leandra’s daughter was engaged,” and then disappears into the crowd. She hopes that the rumor will spread as the Qunari spread through Kirkwall, and it’s a realistic hope.

“Laid it on a bit thick, didn’t you,” Varric says, shrugging his shoulders. She dislodges herself, but somehow a few fingers linger across the line of his shoulders, at the feeling of muscle she doesn’t think about existing.

“It’ll keep a good deal of them off me,” she says. “And so, trusty dwarf, your service has been admirably performed.”

“Was that it?” he asks. “You needed a beard?”

Hawke blinks. “I needed the company,” she says, quietly, and someone stands on the dias, calling for everyone to take their seats. Someone jostles her as they pass, and she steps closer to Varric. “I don’t care for this room.”

Varric curls an arm around her waist and grins at her, a fake grin he likes giving to the Merchant’s Guild. “Let’s give a show, then, Hawke. Let’s put on such a show you forget what happened here.”

His hand is resting on her hip, warm, he’s always so warm, and he makes her laugh, sudden, high and bright.

“Let’s.”

  
  
  
  


It isn’t long before they’re all ushered to seats, and Hawke finds _Marian Hawke_ in fancy calligraphy at a head table, right about where she sliced the Arishok and got sliced in return. How cheery. She’s staring at the clean marble floor in concentration when Varric clears his throat. When she looks up, she finds him with her chair pulled out, and he smiles and gives a roguish wink just for her.

“My dear,” he says, affected, and Hawke smiles back in delight. She takes her seat and, Maker, he’s smooth, pushing the chair in with perfect timing, so everything aligns perfectly.

“Thank you,” she says. She’s not sure if it’s a thank-you for continuing the farce without prompting, or a farcical thank-you for sake of the farce. Someone she doesn’t know is sitting to her left, and Varric takes the seat to her right. A large number of people keep sneaking looks at her, and Hawke forgets that her typical company isn’t the usual Hightown fare when she realizes the large majority of faces in the room are human. Her Kirkwall isn’t so human, she thinks; her Kirkwall is made of all the poorer denizens, not this human-rich crowd, the people she worked shoulder-to-shoulder with, recently arrived fresh-faced and weary from Ferelden.

Nevertheless, she smiles for the masses, tries to remember the color of her knickers when her smile shakes at the corners, and nearly jumps when someone’s hand lands on her right thigh. She glances to her right, and Varric is conversing with the human opposite him, one hand gesticulating, and the other thumb starting to rub circles on her outer thigh.

She needs another glass of wine.

There’s a tinkling sound, someone claiming attention. Some noble, a higher-ranking one Leandra pointed out to her many-a-time, clears her throat. “It has been six months since the Arishok went on a rampage in our city,” the noble says, “and it’s been six months of re-building and discovering just how much we lost. But, let us not dwell too much on loss, but on what we gained that day— a Champion in Marian Hawke, daughter of the recently lost Leandra Amell.” _Also a Hawke_. “Marian, if you please.”

The noble gestures at her; she realizes, swallowing so quickly she nearly chokes, they expect a _speech_ from her. She stands, and Varric’s hand slips from her leg. She smiles stiffly at the crowd. All of the faces are now staring at her, unabashed. The noblewoman sits, tilting a glass her way, and Hawke’s return smile bears teeth. Her hands clench, unclench. Her finger bones crack.

“Uh, I, uh,” she starts, “I’m glad I— we didn’t die six months ago, and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do more for Lowtown, where majority of losses were concentrated. I’m. I... I’m honored to be Champion of Kirkwall, though sorry it came to pass this way.”

She reaches for her wine glass, which had been filled with sparkling during the talking, and raises it in the air. So many faces, and they all expect something from her. “To Kirkwall.” She tilts her glass, and there’s an echoed murmur of her words, and she tosses her glass back. The bubbles burn down her esophagus.

Hawke sits back down, and Varric immediately puts his hand back on her thigh, like it belongs there, and leans in. She leans towards him, her heart beating fast, and he whispers into her ear, “you did good, Hawke.”

“I’ve never done ‘good’, Varric,” Hawke says, lifting her glass up for a refill, which comes promptly. “I always do excellent.” He snorts, squeezes her thigh, and turns to pull his neighbors back into conversation.

Hawke continues sipping at her sparkling, and joins a discussion on agriculture happening nearby, throwing random and created tidbits in to confuse the others. Every especially egregious lie, like, “in Ferelden, they use dog shit as fertilizer, and, let me tell you, it _works_ ,” Varric squeezes her leg. She starts trying to outdo herself. The circles never stop.

A soup and salad are served, the soup some sort of creamy broth, and the salad wilty. Hawke devours both, and she forgot how high the ceilings in this room are and how they make her want to jump.

Someone takes away her sparkling, and replaces it with white. A fish dish is served, and the discussion of agriculture tapers off, long overdue for a mercy kill. Varric continues making conversation, the most engaging conversationalist Hawke has ever met, and she feels her stomach twisting, twisting, and she sets her fist on her left thigh and clenches, unclenches, clench, unclench— she needs to maintain _control_ , everything in her life is about control, ever since she set something on fire. Bethany was good at control; Malcolm was good at control; Hawke has never been good at control. It drove both Carver and Leandra crazy.

After fish comes some sort of pork chop, bread crusted, and it’s tasty, it really, really is, but everything is starting to taste like ash in her mouth. White wine gone, her glass is now filled with red wine. She swirls it around, lifts it up, stares at the ceiling through the red. The room is filled with the clinking of cutlery on porcelain, of chattering, and the crescendo soon starts rising the more wine the guests imbibe.

Varric’s hand left her thigh a while ago. She misses it.

Another glass of wine, most of her food digesting, has her launch into a conversation about ships with her left-hand seatmate, and it’s all bullshit, but she can’t _stay quiet_. There’s noise in her head, and she needs to drown it out. Her seatmates join her, pulled in by her enthusiasm, and they’re all too kind to point out her nonsense, and instead fake smiles and nods and agreements.

This party is different from the ones she attended before.

Their pork plates are cleared and music starts drifting from somewhere as dessert is served. She’s asked if she wants more red wine, or the dessert wine, and she sticks with the red. Dessert is some decadent chocolate cake, and she hardly touches it, and has two more glasses of wine, drinking them too fast to appreciate the high quality.

Varric finishes his cake, has finished everything served to him. He’s toying with a glass of whisky in his left hand, the one that was soothing her, and the amber liquid keeps catching her eye. It’s hard to focus on the conversation about ships, and now it’s devolved to trade— it’s truly amazing that these people are listening to her bullshit opinions about trade, especially since they’ve all been developed by either Varric or Isabela.

The music grows louder as the dessert plates are taken away, and then Varric’s hand is on her thigh again. Her attention is immediately diverted from the conversation, and she leans in close to him.

“Dance with me,” he asks, though she can tell it’s not really a question, and a thrill runs down her back. She grins, giddily, takes a last few sips of her red wine to finish her glass off, and backs out of her chair.

“Come on,” she says, holding a hand out. Varric is more courteous than her, politely bowing out of conversations, taking his  napkin from his lap, and then stands, taking her hand. How often have they held hands before?

Never mind. The thought doesn’t bear thinking; instead, Hawke drags him where some couples are starting to sway to the string instruments, and puts his hand on her waist. His hand easily spans her hip, and there’s an aggrieved expression, but she knows him, can read him for the most part, and knows it’s fake.

“Are you going to lead?” he asks, and she toothily grins.

“I refused to let Carver lead when my mother taught us.”

Varric snorts. He fixes their hands, so his fingers slot over hers. “You’re about to learn.”

He steps forward, and Hawke finds herself stepping back. He swirls her around, and she follows; she finds herself thinking how much more dramatic this would look if that dress hadn’t been so awful. She sort of wishes Leandra were here to see this: her eldest, willingly dancing at a function that is partially— mostly— in her honor. Hawke wonders if Leandra would be proud of her.

They continue dancing, and others join them. Occasionally, someone will cut in and steal one of them from the other. Most of them are young men, and some young women, dying to get a chance with the Champion, but Hawke spends those minutes searching for Varric, and is always gratified when she finds herself back in his arms, his hand a welcome weight and warmth on her waist. He dips her, once, closer to the end of the night, and he makes her laugh, high and clear, the way young and tittering ladies have with paramours, and she really hopes it could be like that, but Varric— Varric doesn’t want that, has made it clear in little ways, and so Hawke lets people continuing to steal her, hopes to be pursued. 

The tables are mostly cleared when she’s ready for a break, a great deal of others guests already sitting down; most of them don’t have her or Varric’s stamina and tired faster. She takes her old seat, the one with her name tag, and idly plays with it. Her wine glass is still sitting there, empty, and she catches the eyes of one of the servers and they fill her up.

“Insatiable,” Varric says, and he sounds fond, and he’s awful. She takes a sip of her wine to avoid saying anything.

  
  
  
  


When they leave, the world is swaying and the soles of her feet ache. She ends up leaning on Varric as they leave, and she hears them murmur about them as they go. They’d been murmuring the whole night, and it makes her glad, in a vindictive sort of way. _See what you know_ , she wants to say. _See if you can wrap me up so nice and neat like you want to_.

She drapes an arm over Varric’s shoulder to further sell the relationship, putting her weight on him like an affectionate lover. He tenses, but lets her. They walk out of the Keep that way, Hawke trying not to trip over her feet, Varric stoically bearing her weight. She misses his hands on her, her waist, back, hands, rubbing soothing circles on her thigh. 

They walk like that all the way home; Hawke expects Varric to pull away at any moment, but he doesn’t. He lets her keep weight on his shoulders, and she resists resting her head on his, just to feel his hair on her face. When they reach the Amell estate, she fumbles so long with the keys tucked into her trouser pockets that Varric eventually pulls them from her hands and dexterously separates them, finding the right key with ease.

Now, as they pass the threshold, Hawke lets go; she lets go of Varric, lets go of the fantasy of the evening.

Her feet ache like a beast, and she throws herself into the armchair closest to the fireplace. “That was fun,” she sighs through a long exhale, eyes closing, curving her spine to stretch. She wiggles her feet and her shoes come off in increments.

Varric chuckles. “Glad it was a good night for one of us.”

She lazily opens her eyes to look at him. He’s not looking at her, but the fireplace, something pensive on his face. “Hm?”

He shakes his head, the tail of his hair swinging. She’s always wondered what his hair felt like, but would never allow herself to think about. She must be too caught up in their farce, of that extended quasi-embrace coming home, to not let those thoughts trickle through, because now it’s a lifted-gate, and her mind is full of thoughts of touch. Of the stubble on his jaws, or pressing fingers to his temples in his stead, what it would be like if she pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart, felt the beat of his life and the inhale-exhale of his lungs.

It’s hard to not think these things. Now that they’re present, she can’t help but _want_ and bad things happen when Hawke wants.

“Thank you,” she says, stilted, sitting up straight. “I appreciated your, uh, company tonight. Much obliged.”

Varric scratches at his head. “Next time, ask Rivaini, would you?”

“Isabela would never,” she immediately, knee-jerk, responds. “Can you imagine?”

He shakes his head again, and shifts, back and forth a couple of times. He wants to say something, Hawke hasn’t a clue what, and discovers her fist is clenched tightly by the sharp pain of nail breaking skin. She forces her hand open. “I’ll take it under advisement,” she adds, tone bright, and gets a laugh out that doesn’t sound too bad. “It would be fun, wouldn’t it, to see Isabela strutting around Viscount Keep in her thigh-high boots. Maybe I will invite her! Just for the looks we’ll get.”

Varric snorts. “Will she also be a fake fiancee?”

“No.” Another knee-jerk response. “Only you.”

His fingers go to his temples. “I’m leaving, Hawke, have a good night.”

He’s true to his word, and soon Hawke is alone, sitting in front of the fireplace Bodahn must’ve kept going for their return. She stares into the fire, the back and forth of flames and crackling, and shivers. Gingerly, she flexes her hand outwards and surveys the red half-moon marks. The blood is already crusted over. 

When the fire starts dying, she pushes herself out of the armchair and leaves her shoes abandoned. Her bedroom is quiet and cold, Dog’s head perking at her footsteps. “Hey, there, boy,” she whispers, shedding her clothing to crawl under her covers naked. She shivers at their cold touch. “Come on up.” Dog doesn’t need a repeated invitation before his large body is curled next to hers, the air around him smelling of copious dog treats. Sandal likes giving several too many.

“I’ll always have you, right?” she asks, pulling covers over her shoulders. Dog snuffles, licks her face, and Hawke decides to forget the whole night. She might have forgotten reality while at the Viscount’s Keep, but Varric did the right thing and reminded her. She’s alone.

  
  
  
  


Hawke stays in bed for a long time. The sun is long since risen when she drags herself out of bed and Dog, the betrayer, left so long ago there’s not a warm spot from his body. Her head hurts, which is typical after a night of that many wine glasses. The whole house is quiet, but if Hawke concentrates, she can faintly hear Orana whistling in the kitchen. Her mother put up a fuss at first, over Orana, but then they became close. Leandra was good at taking in fledglings, of coaxing strength to the forefront.

Passerby in the streets outside her windows trickle into her room. The windows are shut, but she can still hear laughter sneak in. She buries her head into her pillow and wants to scream at the world. She hasn’t had such urges since a child. Or, maybe she’s gotten better at stifling them, at channeling that frustration, that anger, into something more productive.

She’ll go bandit hunting. She’ll pick up Fenris, who’s always got anger to spare, and Aveline, who will take one look at Hawke and knows she needs the distraction. The three of them, Hawke decides. She’ll make a few quick stops around Hightown, and then head out, take the special bridge out of Hightown, flashy in her Champion’s armor. No need to stop by Lowtown, or Darktown, even though she bets Anders would like a chance to see a little sunlight.

Fenris is doing calisthenics when she arrives at his dusty hideaway and tells Hawke he’ll meet her by the bridge. Aveline is in her office, and at first she narrows her eyes. Hawke smiles at her, and then Aveline’s face softens in just about the worst and most sympathetic manner, and Hawke hates that look on her oldest friend’s face.

She would bet a gold coin that Aveline knows the events of last night.

“Fenris is accompanying me bandit-hunting. Care to join?”

And Aveline sighs, but she stands up and gathers her armor. Hawke lingers and is nosy, flipping through papers on Aveline’s desk.

“Those aren’t for your eyes, Hawke,” Aveline says, but doesn’t stop her.

“I’m Champion, everything is for my eyes,” Hawke absent-mindedly rebuts, and Aveline leads the way when put together.

One of Hawke’s favorite thing about Fenris is he’s not a casual conversationalist. He rarely strikes up conversation unless prompted, and she’s noticed he needs to be in the right mood to talk about things. She tried, before, to talk about Danarius when he was wound up, and it backfired quite tremendously. And Aveline doesn’t push. So two hours into hiking through the Wounded Coast, and Hawke is having just about the most marvelous time possible. She’s sweating like nobody’s business, and the weather’s pretty dismal with some heavy clouds on the horizon, but she’s not thinking about anything. Her ideal mindset.

Another hour after that, the sun has fully set, and those clouds have moved too close to continue the hunting.

“Time to head back, Hawke,” Aveline says, looking askance at the clouds.

“I agree,” Fenris says. Then, cautiously, “do we return to the Hanged Man?”

Hawke doesn’t look at Fenris. “You can. I’m going home and bathing. I smell worse than Dog.”

Fenris snorts, which is a sound Hawke typically likes and delights in, but not today.

“I’ll see you another day.”

He leaves, and it’s just Aveline and Hawke. They keep apace, shoulder to shoulder, like so many times before.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aveline eventually asks, when Kirkwall’s filthy walls come into view. They’ve likely a twenty minute walk left. Hawke’s muscles are screaming at her; it’s been too long since she’s been out here. “About Leandra, or last night?”

“Not particularly.” Feeling a petulant child, Hawke kicks a large stone and watches it skitter down the cliffside.

Aveline sighs. “Maker, the both of you are impossible.”

“I resent that. I’m being entirely reasonable.”

“You’re going to need to talk one day,” Aveline says. “You can’t just keep it all bottled up. It isn’t healthy.”

“Aveline, you’ve known me for _years_. Have I ever done the healthy thing?”

“No,” she says. “And that’s why I worry.”

“Speaking of impossible,” Hawke says, “how’s Donnic?”

“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

Hawke hums. “I’m not the only one unwilling to talk, then, so don’t wag any of your fingers.”

“They’re two different things, Hawke!”

Hawke walks a little faster, and she hears Aveline’s grumble, but the conversation stops.

  
  
  
  


The next time Hawke sees Varric, it’s because Merrill convinced her to join her and Isabela for Wicked Grace. Anders has even joined, stress gathering at the corner of his eyes. She squeezes his shoulder as she takes the seat next to his, thumping down.

“Are we betting coin or baubles tonight?”

“Coin,” Isabela says, shuffling. Hawke squints at her hands.

“Isabela,” she says. “Who let you shuffle?”

Isabela’s grin is sharp over the cards in her hands. “I did.”

“You can’t pretend innocence with me,” she says, half-heartedly extends an arm, “hand them over.”

“But, Hawke, who’s to say _you_ won’t cheat.”

“Fine. Hand them over to Merrill, let her shuffle.”

Merrill’s hands flutter, but she looks proud at the trust placed in her. They all know Merrill never cheats.

“How’s the clinic?” Hawke asks while counting and setting up rows of coin.

Anders gives her a look, and it’s all the answer she needs.

Merrill soon finishes the shuffling, and then deals. They each look at their cards, Isabela and Hawke surreptitiously lifting the corners to peak at them, then putting a coin on top, and Merrill and Anders boldly holding them in their hands. Hawke casually leans back, crossing her legs as an excuse and tries to peek at Anders hand.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, angling them just so, and places his hand down. The look he gives her is frosty.

Hawke gives her most charming smile. “Pardon?”

“Don’t bother,” he says, and then places a coin on his cards. She sighs, slumps, and stretches out her legs.

Isabela, left of Merrill, plays first, then Hawke, then Anders, and soon Hawke is absorbed in the game, in reading her friends, in bluffs, in thinking of the game and what cards are left to play. Her coin pile isn’t growing substantially, but she typically doesn’t play to win. She plays for the game— _gag me_ , she thinks after realizing. Gross. Isabela would disinherit her for such a statement. _Never play for fun when you can play for gold_.

The more time goes by, and the more beers she has, Hawke can feel the stress slowly lifting. This is what she needs. Light-hearted fun with friends. She doesn’t need Aveline’s careful prodding, Fenris’s guarded silence, or— whatever’s going on with Varric. Stuff Bodahn’s nudges about Leandra, and Orana mending by the fire. Just some friends, having fun, playing card games.

When Varric comes down the stairs— and of course he was going to, in hindsight it’s inevitable— Hawke can feel her hair stand up, on her neck, all the way down her arms. She’s drunker than she’d like to be for their next interaction. She doesn’t look at him, hoping he was out the door and she could pretend ignorance, but Isabel’s playing dumb wench, and calls him over.

“What were you doing up there for so long, you grump?”

“Epistolary business,” he says, puts his hand on the back of her chair, and she nonchalantly greets him.

“Evening, Varric.” She still doesn’t look at him.

“Hawke, everyone. Having a game without me?”

Isabela is staring at her, and Maker, Hawke thinks she hates Isabela, because she says, “want to join? Better late than never.” Her eyes never leave Hawke’s face, so Hawke does her level best to not show emotion.

“You just want him in because he’s got the juiciest purse.”

“No, I’m inviting him because he’s the only decent player among us,” Isabela counters, and her smile is razor sharp, and Hawke would like to murder her dear friend, because Isabela _knows_ —which makes Hawke wonder who else knows, if that night is common knowledge, and who told her, because Hawke’s going to kill Isabela and then that person.

“I’m pretty sure you’re inviting him because, after you, he’s the best at cheating.”

Isabela’s smile becomes more dangerous. “My dear, you flatter me. I never cheat.”

Varric sighs, and removes his hand, and Hawke feels tension leave her body. A hand is in her lap, clenched; she unclenches it. She hadn’t realized. He pulls a chair up next to her, and Hawke is still doing her best not to look, but he’s more prominently in the corner of her eye. This is not her idea of fun, not anymore.

“Take mine,” she says, trying for off-hand. “Orana wants to go shopping early, so I need to get going.”

She still doesn’t look, and she hopes no one notices, but she’s shitty luck-wise, so they all likely do.

“Are you quite alright?” Merrill asks, because she’s sweet, and Hawke shakes the concern off best she can.

“Absolutely! Varric.” His name tastes sour in her mouth as she moves the cards in front of him and pushes her money over. “Consider it payback towards what I owe.” Hawke still isn’t looking, but she can see his broad hands, his sleeves pushed up and thick forearms covered in hair, that light-brown, highlights catching the firelight, and then her throat catches too, and something’s wrong with her. Something is desperately wrong with her. “Now I have to dash.”

No one follows her, and it’s only when Hawke is hauling her body up several flights of stairs that she realizes she left her coat behind. The air is chilly. She hears music, folksy and bright, and feet tapping out dances. She’s drunker than she wants to be, and so, she follows the sounds, and finds herself in an unknown bar, amongst unknown people, and decides she wants to dance. Her shoes are too heavy for the floor, so she takes them off, wobbling a little, and orders drinks on the house when there are Champion related whispers.

She picks a partner, and everyone’s swirling around the room, casual and fun, better than the Viscount’s Keep, though this party is missing a rather key element for true fun. Hawke still lets herself get lost in the music, get lost amongst strangers, and finds she doesn’t mind too much. She might know the faces, but she knows the crowd; she knows most of the faces of Kirkwall. There’s not much of the city she doesn’t know, after all, underbelly and all.

  
  
  
  


Orana wanting help shopping isn’t a lie. Hawke returns late that night, and the insistent knocking on her door the morning after isn’t appreciated it. She groans into her pillow. Her feet hurt, from being stepped on and dancing too long.

“Marian,” Orana calls.

Hawke’s groan stops halfway. Orana’s the only one who calls her that, nowadays. Other than Carver, who most assuredly does not count.

She lets herself have one stretch in bed, then swings her feet over the edge. The carpet is cold, but soft. “Give me a minute,” she calls back. “Just a minute.” Hawke hears a soft exhale, and then footsteps lead away from her bedroom door. Her clothes from the night before are strewn across the floor, and her shirt is hanging from her dresser knob. She would just wear yesterday’s clothes, but sometime during the night someone had spilled liquor down her front, and she’d rather not stink while out with Orana.

Hawke takes more than one minute to dress, but not much more, jamming legs into long-johns and loose-fitting pants, and slips into a sweater that probably goes fine with the camisole she wore to bed. Her favorite leather jacket is still at the Hanged Man— if she knows Varric at all, it’s likely in his safe-keeping, folded up on one of the surfaces in his rooms. She picks up her second favorite leather jacket, and puts fuzzy socks on.

“I’m ready,” she calls, sliding onto the landing and peering over the balustrade. Orana is waiting by the foyer, supremely bundled up, a scarf tightly wound around her neck and thick mittens on her hands. Hawke laughs at the sight, and when she turns, her eyes catch on her mother’s closed door. Something like shame fills her when her first thought is, _I need to go through her things_.

She thuds down the stairs, quickly laces up her boots, and then pops right back out of the armchair. “A minute, as I said,” she announces to Orana, and then pushes the slender woman out the door. “Lead the way.”

The wind outside is bracing, but fickle, here then gone. Orana hands the list Bodahn wrote for her over, and Hawke scans it. “Mostly dry goods, it seems,” Hawke comments.

“Yes, Marian.” Orana used to do the shopping with Leandra, who had been in the middle of teaching Orana to read and write before the foundry. If Hawke is going to teach Fenris to write, she might as well continue Orana’s studies. Hawke has been in Kirkwall long enough, by now, for her to start making long-term plans, loathe though she may be about it.

It is still early enough in the morning for Hightown’s streets to be quiet, and Hawke enjoys the fresh air the breeze gives them. A few people nod and murmur hellos as they walk, and Hawke doesn’t mind returning the courtesies. They stop at Orana’s favorite dry grocer’s, and Hawke carries the brunt of the burdens after paying.

“Other than the dry goods, it’s mostly fruits and vegetables,” Hawke tells Orana as they step back outside. The sun is higher in the sky, just enough so to take the edge off the cold breeze.

Right as they near the fresh grocer, someone stops them.

“Champion! Marian!”

She turns slowly, and it’s a face she doesn’t recognize. The clothes are of fine quality, though, and the hair foppish enough to give her context. A young nobleman, someone who knew her through Leandra. “Go on ahead, Orana,” she tells her companion, “I’ll meet you there.”

“How’re you doing?” he asks, and Hawke knows he means well, his tone is solicitous, but she bristles.

“Excellently, thank you. Do you need something from me? Help, something or someone taken care of?”

He blinks, taken-aback. “Oh, no, Maker, nothing like that. We met, at the banquet? A number of weeks ago.”

Oh. One of those nobles. “And?”

“I’m…” The nobleman trails off, looking hopeful that she’ll throw a bone for him. She doesn’t. “How’s the fiance?” he asks, instead, and she rather wishes she’d thrown a bone rather than deal with this particular question.

“My fiance,” she echoes. “Varric?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Varric Tethras. Everyone was aflutter over the news. No one thought a dwarf would propose, not to an Amell. Especially not one with his familial past.”

Still surprised from the fiance-bomb, she doesn’t react quickly to the disparaging tone with the word ‘dwarf’ and the family comment. Hawke would like nothing more to punch him in the face, and the option is definitely on the table. “My fiance,” she says. “You’d like to say those words about my fiance?”

He squints at her, or at the sun behind her. “Everyone’s saying it.”>

“Everyone is? Well, that must make you the poor, brave soul to try insulting my fiance, the love of my life, to my face.”

He’s still squinting, but Hawke thinks he might be getting a full picture of how this conversation is going. “Uh, I…”

“Any other comments you’d like to make? About the suitability of my fiance, or any of the other company I keep.”

“I’m not sure I—”

“My mother didn’t care, and didn’t everyone absolutely _adore_ Leandra?”

“I didn’t mean—!”

“I don’t care what you _meant_ ,” Hawke snarls. “If anything gets back to me, any slight about Varric or my friends, the smallest whisper, there will be consequences. And you know who I am, right? Champion. It won’t just be some social death. You know what I’ve done and what I’m capable of.”

His face is ashen; she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care if this gets back to the Templars, or if this is social suicide for her. The world is silent as he nods, eyes wide and darting, then he disappears. The world is still silent. Hawke stands, alone, on the nice cobbled streets of Hightown, a bag of rice slung over one shoulder and a bag of Orana’s favorite baking supplies in the other hand.

A light touch at her elbow jerks her out of the reverie, and Hawke realizes her breath is ragged, chest heaving, her entire body shaking minutely, but enough to hear the rice shaking next to her ear.

“Hawke?”

Genuinely, the last person she wants to see. “Varric!” She tries to still herself, but her hands are full; her voice breaks at the end of his name, and she winces. “Fancy seeing you here, hm, I’m out doing shopping with Orana, so if you don’t mind, I best be going.”

She leaves without looking back, and Hawke finds Orana waiting outside the fresh grocers, bagged purchases in hand. “I’m done for the day,” Orana says, eyes patient and aged. “Let’s go home.”

  
  
  
  


Hawke doesn’t think she’ll ever be ready to go through Leandra’s room. She knows Orana goes in, every now and then, mostly to dust and tidy. No one else will enter, and Maker knows Carver would prefer to set the estate on fire than live in it. It has to be her. She had found her letters not long after Leandra’s murder, tucked into a writing desk in the library; Hawke couldn’t bear to look at them for long, and eventually took a cowardly route by gifting them to Gamlen.

She stands in front of the door, palm pressed against the wood. She can almost sense the room: the made bed, the dresser, the most comfortable armchair in the house, atall, skinny bookcase for all of her mother’s favorites. She kept flowers in a vase by her window, and Hawke wonders what happened to those last lilies she received. Hawke’s stomach clenches, and her hand curls into a fist on the door.

They only came to Kirkwall at Leandra’s insistence, and Hawke could leave. There’s nothing about this city she loves— except, Hawke thinks, the people. She doesn’t love this city for the circumstances that brought her here, the Blight, her sister’s death. She ought to realize that Kirkwall is her home, by now; she has lived in Kirkwall at least third of her life, and far longer than anywhere else. Would she want to call any of the towns and villages they lived in Ferelden home?

 _No_ , Hawke thinks. _I wouldn’t_. Ferelden doesn’t spark that primal protectiveness that Kirkwall does. Her mother chose Kirkwall as a destination, but they all continued to choose Kirkwall in those subsequent years. Better or worse, Kirkwall is _home_ , a home Hawke has never had before. Kirkwall has her people within its grimy, bloody walls.

She understands, crouching in front of Leandra’s door and leaning her forehead against the varnished grain, why Varric loves this city. Hawke breathes deep, shuddering on the exhale.

Maybe Hawke never knew Leandra well enough to know how to deal with this aftermath, and without the twins, the decision falls to her. All she knows is, “not today,” a whisper to the door; maybe never.

  
  
  
  


Winter sets in. Snow blankets the Amell estate, and the chatter audible in Hawke’s room is muted. People bundle up, thick fur coats with heavy woolen scarves and hats. Wind sweeps through all the streets of Kirkwall; her citizens tamp snow into ice onto the pavements. Hawke adds minute spikes to her winter boots to combat the slick ice. At long last, she might love Kirkwall in the winter. The city subdues further as winter deepens. She’s not sure how she spends her time, exactly: evenings of cards at the Hanged Man, studiously pretending her heart has never beat faster, bringing firewood to Anders and Fenris, heading out of town when rumors of wolves circulate.

She receive invitations at the beginning of winter, to balls and dinners, and Hawke lets them gather dust on her desk; the invitations dwindle, and she doesn’t mind. She’s not sure she could endure a social event without Varric at her side, without him sitting next to her and feeling his hands guide her, at her waist, calming her with repetition.

She spends time in the Amell library, and she finds old journals her mother wrote. These, she also gives to Gamlen. His eyes are still dimmed, but he reeks of liquor and elfroot less than he did. Sometimes, Aveline comes by for dinner, and Hawke teases her about Donnic. Aveline has a pretty blush and hates being called pretty. Hawke used to seek Varric’s company out a great deal more, but the thought of seeing him and pretending is painful, more painful than before, to the extent that avoiding him is less so.

People call her brave. She doesn’t like dissuading them from the thought.

Hawke runs late one night, on the way to the Hanged Man, and when she enters, Varric alone is sitting at their usual table. She supposes that, well, this had to happen eventually, she’s just not sure she’s ready.

“Varric,” she says, stuffs her gloves into pockets, unwinds the endless scarf Orana knit, and dumps all her winter gear into the seat next to her. His shirt is unbuttoned as usual, and Hawke shivers.

“Hawke,” he says. He’s shuffling a deck of cards between his hands, a skill Hawke poorly replicates. She drops into her seat; he adjusts in his. The silence between them is unbearable, but she doesn’t know what to say, everything coming to mind trite and ugly. She hates the quiet between them; there was never a quiet like this before. Conversation had always sprung up, naturally, and now something’s in the way— she knows what it is, this thing sitting between them, hates to admit it.

“Been to any parties lately?” Varric asks, “Rivaini’s not let anything slip.”

Hawke bristles. “No. I wouldn’t ask her anyway.”

“Oh?”

“Only you.”

The cards thwack into one hand, and Varric stops the back-and-forth; his fingers straighten edges as he speaks, “I recall you saying something like that before.”

“I’ve said many things. You expect me to remember every word that leaves my mouth?” 

She remembers: the firelight, the deepset loneliness she’ll never quite be rid of, how some of Varric’s tail was loose and slight wisps curved behind his ears.

“Hawke…”

An ellipsis is never good news. She leaps out of her chair. “I haven’t a beer, be right back. I’ll get one for everybody.”

“They’re not coming tonight, Hawke.”

She ignores him, orders four beers, and spills a little on her return. “As I see you already have one, one’s for me, the rest is for the lucky first three.”

“They’re not coming.”

She blinks. “Yes, they are. We play cards every week. Why would they not come?”

“They have other business.”

“Oh well,” she says, fakes merriment, starts in on one beer. “More for me.”

“What happened?”

It’s a question both vague enough to easily misinterpret, and blunt enough to cut straight to the point. Hawke’s not sure which she’d rather go for; she decides: neither. “I avoid lying when I can, you know. It’s rather more your purview, wouldn’t you say? I can’t say the number of promises I’ve broken, either.”

Varric’s eyebrows pull together. “And?”

“I just—” She’s never going to say it. He’s trying to cajole something out of her, because there’s no way he’s not noticed how she pulls away from him, now, how her attitude is so different from before. He will try and coax a confession of something from her: she refuses to obey.

“Hawke?”

“Everything’s been weird, and somehow wrong, since, well, you know.”

“Since Leandra, yes.”

She squints at him, cradles her mug between her hands. The glass is slightly sticky, and she absently licks at her fingers; his eyes trace the movements. Her cheeks burn. “Yes.” _No_. “Actually, I’m not interested in having this conversation anymore. I’m going to quickly finish these,” a hand sweep to indicate the beers, “and head home.”

Hawke picks up the mug and starts chugging; Varric sets the deck of cards onto the table. “Fine. You won’t say anything, so I’ll come clean. Maker, Hawke, I miss you.”

She chokes, because Varric _what_ , and ends up spitting some of the beer back into the mug. His tone is soft. He’s gentle. This is not the tone he typically uses when talking with her. He tosses a cloth her way, and she assumes it a rag as she wipes her face, and discovers only afterwards that it’s a monogrammed handkerchief. Her hand clenches around it.

“I know you’re still processing what happened, that the whole city wants and needs you, but, Maker’s breath, don’t forget about me. Please.” He’s not looking at her face as he says this, but at her hands, which clench, unclench, clench. A small, crooked smile flits across his face. 

“I can’t do this,” she whispers, then, louder, “how dare you. I’ve been doing fine, getting over myself, but then you say shit like that, and my hopes— stop playing with me, Varric.” Her voice breaks, and Hawke plays it off as a cough. Her hands are trembling, tight around the cloth. She tosses it back to him.

He’s finally looking at her, and she feels seen in a way she hasn’t before. She’s always known Varric knows her like no one else. In the whole wide world, Hawke knows she will never find someone who knows her strengths and foibles as well as him. No one knows how to push and pull, knows how to play her like a delicate instrument, like him. His face is so dear to her. His mind is so dear to her. She can’t bear to lose him; she will do whatever it takes to not lose him, and that means standing up and walking out the Hanged Man before she says or does something she will regret.

“Hawke, there is nothing in this world that can keep us apart. Why can’t you be honest?”

“I’ve been nothing but honest, and you— you rebuff me and expect me to carry on as normal, and it takes time, Varric!”

“Rebuff you?”

She stands, pushes the three untouched mugs his way, and starts winding Orana’s scarf back around her neck. “I know what you’re doing, Varric, and I’m not going to fall for it. Asking me leading questions, and you know I hate not having the last word, and— and— I’m leaving!” She grabs her coat, and moves around the table, but Varric is in her way.

“Tell me what’s wrong, or I’ll believe until my dying breath you hate me.”

His opinion is too high a value for such a thing, and her emotions are running high, and her exercises have never let her down so grievously before: she blurts, “I love you.” True surprise flickers across his face. Whatever he expects from her, it clearly isn’t a declaration. She wants to laugh; she can feel her insides burning and curdling. “I told you, Varric. I don’t lie, and you never listen. I never wanted to be put down nicely, and I was doing just fine bottling it up, you know how I do, but then— at the banquet, there you were, touching me, and you danced with me! And it was too much! You’re too much. I wish I didn’t love you so, but here we are. As you wished, I’ve stated the truth in full, and now we’re going to pretend this never happened, because I never wanted this to happen, I told you, Varric, I don’t want you to know.”

His hands reach up and cup her face. A thumb carefully crosses the skin across her eye, and that’s how Hawke realizes she’s crying. “You’re such an idiot.” He sounds relieved, which is a great and positive sign for her, a chance they can leave this horrid conversation behind them, pretend it never happened, but the smile on his face is confusing. She’s never seen him quite like this, so composed, and gentle, careful and kind, as though she might break.

“I’m not an idiot,” she says, swaying forward, lowering her head a little to feel his hands a little better. His thumb brushes below her eyes again. She hates crying, but this isn’t too bad.

“Yes, you are. I’m blindingly obvious. I’m in disbelief you never noticed.”

She sniffs. “Noticed?”

“Hawke. Marian. I love you. Everyone knows.”

“No they don’t.” He looks so fond, _in love_ , her traitorous mind whispers; she doesn’t understand. “Aveline would have told me!”

“She wouldn’t.”

“Liar.”

“I know.”

She leans down a little more and eventually their foreheads are pressed against each other. He smells like ink, and the perpetual smoke of the Hanged Man, of leather and grease. “Say it again?”

“You’re an idiot.” She laughs, head slipping, but his hands are still framing her features, and he pulls her in for a kiss.

“You have such a way with words, Ser Tethras. You’re going to give a girl ideas.”

One hand moves to card through her hair. She shivers. “That’s the plan.”

  
  
  
  


On the one year anniversary of Leandra’s death, Varric joins her at the foundry. The building is abandoned, and this year Hawke builds a plaque for commemoration; she installs it low on the wall near where she had held Leandra’s body as she breathed her last. The dates of her birth and death are engraved below her name. “She loved Kirkwall, Maker knows why,” she tells him, squatting in front of it. He’s not quite touching her, but hovers close-by. “This city never did her any good.”

He rests a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. “This city does no one any good.”

She laughs under her breath and stands up. His hand falls from her shoulder, but he grabs her hand. “It’s done one thing right,” she says, glancing at him under her lashes. He grins and takes her hand to his lips, presses a soft kiss to each knuckle.

“You’re an idiot.”

She laughs. “I’m _your_ idiot, aren’t I.”

He grins; she leans in, knows that smile, knows that loving look, knows that love is reflected on her face. “Love you,” he says, presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“You’re awful,” she replies. “Can we not where my mother died?” He’s still smiling as they leave, and tenderly tugs on her hand as they leave the building. “Fine, fine,” Hawke rolls her eyes, “love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> edit 1/7 HOW COME NO ONE REMINDED ME IT'S DANARIUS INSTEAD OF DEMETRIUS!!!! I MEAN SAME DIFF STILL A LATIN-BASED NAME BUT!!!!


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